


Wax Taxidermy

by kylocatastrophe



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: "Magic Wax", Aftercare, Arsonist!Hux, Bondage, Headspace, Hideous Scene Etiquitte, Immobilization, Loss of Control, Loss of major motor capacity, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Discussed Scene, Non-Sexual Bondage, Psychological Torture, Questionable mental stability, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wax Play, artist!Kylo, believe it or not this is the softcore version of the AU, encasement, it wasn't intended to be sexual, maybe? - Freeform, resolved emotional tension, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:38:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8554189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylocatastrophe/pseuds/kylocatastrophe
Summary: The Wax Taxidermist makes and leaves politically charged sculptures around the city. They're controversial, rats and pigeons mostly, encased in layer upon layer of wax, painstakingly carved and polished to a glossy sheen. An arsonist takes it upon themselves to put a stop to this so called art once cats begin to make an appearance. It doesn't take long for the Wax Taxidermist to catch on, and bait them into capture, and he intends to make a new sculpture from his petty arsonist.





	

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd, one sitting, holy fuck. POV switches between them bc as I wrote some i was like FUCK THE OTHER ONE IS FEELING SO MUCH SHIT RN I CANT JUST LEAVE IT UNSAID and it kept going like that. i tried to keep the narrative somewhat linear, but i really gotta sleep.
> 
> There is nothing sexual in this bit, but there's a lot of tension.  
> I don't seem to write happy, safe, or sane relationships, and I do not condone any of this.

_Art is subjective._ It is controlled by audience. It is a dialogue between creator and observer, a window into the mind and soul. As such, sometimes, people don’t like, or even come to hate art. Raw, violent things, the truth, these things spike uneasiness and fear.

Gore is too easy. He isn’t going for shock factor. Kylo creates beauty in realism. Drawing directly from nature is his goal. One read is hardly enough. Two, three, or even four, and he hopes that passers by don’t realize until the third or fourth time they’ve walked by, that they don’t realize until then, what it is that they are looking at. The best reactions are when people stop, crouch down and stare. Jump back, maybe, scramble away from the impetuous taxidermy parody.

Wax coated figures are what he leaves behind. Normally small things, they’re the easiest to find, carry around, and hide in the city. His favorites are rats and pigeons, due to the sheer abundance of them. They are posed, sometimes in groups, sometimes dressed in doll’s clothes, around whole sets. The best works were political responses, showing a keen ear and devotion to the currents and changes in local political climate.

The first layer lets him pose the animals. If he clothes them, he does it then, and begin his second meticulous layer. Each one would be polished, details re-carved, and the process would repeat until he had a sealed, milky, but glasslike figure.

Around town, they became familiar, but still oddities. Journals called him the Wax Taxidermist, and Kylo thrived on the controversy. Did he kill the animals? Did they suffer? Was the wax safe? He itched to come forward and answer these questions, but he also couldn’t resist the cloak of anonymity. No one had caught him placing or removing any of his works, even when he graduated to larger animals.

His first cat lasted less than a week outside.

Someone had set it, and every other statement he had in the city, on fire. Just… lit them up, and let them burn. Left cremated remains on the sidewalk. At first, he just lamented what was lost. The top hat and tuxedo had been painstaking to create in such a scale, and posing the cat, so the claws were extended, bipedal, in the mockery of a bow, trapping a beggar-coded rat beneath one foot, had been the biggest challenge of all. 

And someone set it on fire.

There were a lot of little fires lately.

So Kylo set a trap. He baited them. With another cat. A black cat, because it was late October, and the city was already spooky festive in most window shops and door stoops, adorned with pumpkins, other assorted gourds and fake, wooly spider webs. 

He set up the cat cowering, hiding behind a pointy witch hat, pressed up against the side of a concrete step by a half circle of religious robed rats, each posed in obvious reference to rock throwing. Stoning a witch. Kylo wondered if they would complete the symbol and burn it. As they did with witches in Massachusetts. The stoop itself was actually on Massachusetts Avenue. Since he couldn’t find anything directly representing Salem. It would do. People weren’t stupid.

Camping out there sucked. The facing building was residential, but the roof was sparse and unfurnished. It meant he wouldn’t be disturbed, but the wind bit right through his bundled coats. Whistling between the buildings, catching his hood with icy claws, sure, it was late October in a moderate climate, but the weather had no business being that cold. Kylo would end up rocking a wicked cold, or he would have if it wasn’t for the thermos tucked against his chest.

Two nights, and Kylo was sure his fingers were going to fall off in his gloves, and finally, he saw blurry movement. Blinking violently to clear his eyes, staring down at this prick and a… blowtorch? What the actual fuck. He couldn’t hear the flame light from there, but he imagined it, that ear-filling sort of thump. 

Kylo dashed down, realizing he hadn’t actually thought about how he was going to confront this… arsonist. He had nothing but his fists, and a sudden, choking anger. With the blazing witch-cat and the blazing rats to the side, Kylo tackled him. They rolled, a mass of flailing arms and legs. He was pretty sure he got bashed by a chef’s torch, and he did sort of hear it clang away into the street.

Ending up on top was no feat of skill, it was simply weight and strength. The perpetrator was slim, even under the scuffed up coat. What even was it? A pea-coat of some kind? jacket? Kylo had the collar in his fist, and reared up to punch him. The distant sound of sirens made him flinch, and he swore, feeling the aftermath of the torch connecting with his side as the pain wormed through the adrenaline. 

He realized the body beneath him wasn’t moving, though the eyes were kind of open, more like… lolling. Glassy. It reminded him of the roadkill he picked up. Hand over the mouth, Kylo confirmed they were breathing, which was good. He wasn’t looking to just… murder someone. Even though they had systematically destroyed all of his art pieces in the city. 

Kylo rolled off of them, and hoisted them up, somewhat surprised by the heft. Well, he supposed, that most bodies were about a hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight, closer to one-thirty-five if they were tall. He left the burning remains behind, and fled before any authorities showed up, if they had even been called. He wasn’t about to stick around and find out. 

 

\---

 

His charge woke up tied rather expertly to a chair. It was a wooden folding chair, nothing particularly sturdy or heavy, but it was what Kylo had on hand.

“I’m still heating up the wax,” Kylo said, voice steady. “But I’m glad you’re up. I need some answers from you.”

He watched the redhead snort, and noted that he still seemed disoriented, but the look he got; fierce green-blue eyes, like ice, but burning with cold fire… like liquid nitrogen, he supposed.

“I’ll scream.”

Kylo laughed. “Yeah, and the building will be all that hears you.” Outside, there were muffled sounds of metalworking, or perhaps cargo movement. Metal on metal on gravel on metal. Clanging away beyond the dark studio. The only light that was on was the warehouse bulb above Hux, shedding a swinging circle around him and Kylo on the concrete. 

There was a secondary light source from the veritable furnace Kylo was standing beside, and the unused stands for what appeared to be flood lamps around them, and hundreds upon thousands of candles, but it was hard to see into the dark beyond the harsh ceiling light.

“I just want to know why you keep setting my art on fire.”

The ginger just glared at him, as if he could make Kylo combust where he stood. 

Kylo stirred the pot of wax, humming to himself.

“That’s fine. You don’t need to talk. I know it’s you. But I mean, really? With a chef’s torch?” Kylo actually laughed, a loud, darkly boisterous thing. He let it echo in the warehouse-turned-studio, and once it finally died, met the silent, hot glare.

“I’ll just turn you into my next piece.”

That made his captive stiffen up in the chair. So far, he hadn’t really tried to move, but now, the chair leg bumped up against the lip of the pan it was sitting in. He watched him look down, notice it, and startle in a different, more emotional, but silent way. Kylo recognized the flash of fear. It shouldn’t have looked that attractive.

“It doesn’t hurt, the wax, I mean. So tell me. Why me? Why destroy it? Have you no respect for art?”

Kylo picked up one of the many candles, and pulled a shiny flip-cap Zippo from his pocket. His boots kicked up little clouds of dust. No matter how much sweeping, there would always be a layer of wax dust on the floor. “You burn it, huh… must like how it looks…” He kicked the lighter into flame, watching the slim arsonist. Their eyes were glued on the lighter, keyed in to watch the wheel spin, spark, and ignite the butane. Kylo didn’t think it was possible to see a pupil dilate that rapidly, and he wasn’t even sure he saw it, with how quickly they drew back and looked away.

He pulled out a cigarette, dangled it between his lips, and sucked the flame. He wondered if they could feel the heat when he inhaled again, lungs filling with smoke. Kylo snapped the menthol in the filter and sighed, blowing it right at him.

Kylo moved the lighter close to their face again, watching them turn the other way. He pulled it back, and their eyes were drawn to the flickering light. “I guess I have to get the first bucket of wax, don’t I, Sir Arsonist.” He snapped the lighter closed, paused to rub his thumb over the carving in scrimshaw styling pressed into the side.

It disappeared into his pocket, and he swept off to pick up necessary tools. A bucket, one already with a thick layer of wax drippings, some so old they appeared yellowed. The newer ones were clear, icicles off a gutter. And a clean, heavy palette knife, as well as a liquid candle. This was a glass container, an old one. A paraffin candle, and it leapt to life so beautifully under the hand of his lighter.

A bright, white flame, and it would burn as long as there was paraffin within the cell. 

“See, I use fire plenty. But to create, to shape.”

Kylo turned back, dipping the bucket into the veritable cauldron of wax. He didn’t even bother knocking any of the old drippings, they would melt into the pot. What he had in there were old drippings and filtered cast offs from his old work. Things he couldn’t use on new projects because they wouldn’t cool as clear as his pure wax would.

“Still not talking to me? Here, I’ll show you.” He brought the wax to the arsonist, taking his time with it. Kylo was much less careful when he poured the wax over the man’s knees, catching it where it drizzled too far with his knife, making sure it caught and solidified each fold in his jeans. The wax seeped over the spiffy leather shoes, and Kylo heated the knife so he could shape it smooth. 

Kylo smiled up at him, “See?” He knew the warmth of the wax would be biting through the impregnated denim. He’d felt it enough on his hands. “I will need a name for my new piece, don’t you agree? I’m thinking… Firestarter.”

That earned him an incredulous laugh. “Really? You name them? Those… things?”

“So, it speaks, wonderful.” Kylo stood, and went to retrieve more wax. “My sculptures, you mean. Yes. Doesn’t every artist name their work? Well… Not that you’d know, you seem more keen on burning them.”

Another gout of wax was dropped upon him, and Kylo was glad to finally hear him cry out. He’d been starting to think the man was mute. Which would have been no fun at all. “So who are you?” He moved in front of the paraffin wax flame to block their sight of it. “A name will do.”

“You’ll keep putting wax on me, it doesn’t matter, does it?” They spat at him for good measure, and Kylo grunted, wiping it from his face. 

In response though, he shrugged. “Probably, yeah. It only seems fair.”

They gawked. “Fair? Fair?!-”

“Look, I know the wax is hot but you really need to relax, it’ll be very uncomfortable-”

“It isn’t fucking fair, what sick fuck kills things to make…. Make sculptures - I can’t believe you even call them that - and cats-!!” 

Kylo rocked back on his heels, amused, but pleased with the outburst. He really was like a little fire, moving from fuel to fuel, sparking up and consuming everything in its wake. His attention went back to smoothing the wax on his thighs with the palette knife.

“Okay, now I know why, but you’re wrong.” Up he went, with his bucket, for more wax. Kylo returned and unceremoniously poured it over his crotch.

“Oh. I should have let that cool a little. It won’t burn, not like… permanently.”

He was pretty sure the tied up arsonist didn’t hear him over the curdling scream. It was a mix of pain and surprise, as if he hadn’t really expected Kylo to continue slathering him in hot wax. Kylo ashed off the rather long end of his cigarette into the pan around them, took another drag, and ashed it once more. He’d almost forgotten about it. “I don’t need all your answers now, I can get them after. I do intend on making a sculpture out of you. Like this.” 

A pointed gesture to his crotch made the ginger look down. Watching the heat and shame crawl up his neck and onto his face was priceless. He didn’t speak for a while after that, at least two or three buckets worth of wax, which he had to wait until they were at a good, thick viscosity to work with. The amount that he was using made much thicker layers than he normally worked with, and of course, it was a much larger subject, so he couldn’t turn him to keep the runny, fully melted wax on. He had to use slightly cooled wax. It was difficult, but he could spread it over them, encase their stomach and torso, meld their back to the chair, and preserve the arch of their perfect posture. 

It was a thing of beauty, really, the wax, milky and marbled because he wasn’t polishing it clear between layers, just packing it into the curve between the man’s lumbar and the chair supports. He could tell that the light would diffuse through it, become a soft, overcast glow. In fact, it was looking like most of the wax would absorb and diffuse the light in a gentle kind of glow.

“Are your legs alright? I assume it’s rather heavy. I don’t want you to move too much, but you’re really becoming something… something beautiful.” Kylo knew he sounded breathless. He couldn’t help it. The man was being slowly and carefully immortalized (however temporarily) in wax, and it was better than Kylo imagined it might be.

“Fine,” came his response, and Kylo took it.

He took the opportunity of another pour over the shoulders to speak again, “You know, all of my subjects… they’re normally dead. Road kill. That’s why I use wax. To hold together broken bones, keep in leaky body parts.” Kylo chuckles, partially at his words, and also the gasp from below him when the hot wax rolls down over his chest like angry honey. 

More is guided down with his hands, and then the seams with the cooling wax ensconcing the jerking stomach below. “Before it cools, I suggest expanding your chest. Don’t want you to suffocate too badly… so deep breath with me,” Kylo made sure the man’s attention was on him. He inhaled noisily, pleased when he saw it mimicked. He let it go, and so did they, much softer than his rattling lungs. Kylo coughed and stubbed out the useless, smouldering butt before he could inhale more of the filter. Stupid.

They fell back into the strange, uneasy and reverent silence, and it was both in equal parts, until Kylo noticed the puffs of breath beside him pick up an irregular rhythm. “Calm. I won’t suffocate you.”

“The fuck you will, you’re smothering me.”

“It’s an encasement. Remember, I use it to keep broken bones in place. You’re so fragile…” Kylo trailed off, focusing intently on the intricate details of his hands. As they were bound, forearm to forearm, hooked over the back of the chair, he wanted to make sure he captured the harsh valleys between each finger, the grip against his own arms. The weight of the wax stilled the slight shaking. The silence crept in again.

 

\---

 

This man was fucking insane. Mostly. Probably. 

So he didn’t actually use live animals… but the lark was fucking pouring hot wax all over him, and it was heavy, weighing down his thighs, hugging them to the chair, pressing in on his stomach, and every time he breathed in, he could feel it that much more, that snug against his chest.

It was warm, and horribly soothing, even though it was plastering his jeans to his skin. The only comfort he had was that he could still move his toes in his shoes, but his ankles were glued into place, knees, hips, now his fingers.

Hux wasn’t sure when it was that he fell asleep, but he woke up, still in that warm, full body embrace. There was even a pillow behind his head. A large part of him was trying to panic, wanting to move, but his muscles were putty. Melted under the wax, and useless under its weight. It was like… like safety, but he was loathe to admit it, just like he was loathe to admit or even acknowledge the chub trapped in his jeans.

The Wax Taxidermist was working over the wax, polishing and smoothing it to a glossy shine, making sure the details stayed sharp, even in their encasement. It was strange to feel a touch through a good thickness of wax. It felt dulled.

That’s right… he’d called it an encasement. Like a cocoon, a shell. A sanctuary. Hux’s mind flickered back to the practice of casting wax facades for dead saints, to the wax bodies in churches and cathedrals, behind glass caskets. It shouldn’t have made his stomach twist in heat.

So dulled had he been by the barrier of wax that actual fingers on his cheek made him startle. 

“Shh, shh. Careful… if you breathe too deep, you might crack it… and we’ll have to start all over.” Hux couldn’t check the shiver that rippled down his spine. He felt his skin prickle under the wax, trying to raise goosebumps. There was cooled wax on the Wax Taxidermist’s fingers, and it felt smooth, where the callouses elsewhere were rough.

“I’m almost… you’re almost done.”

Hux blinked owlishly. “I’m? What’s left?”

The Wax Taxidermist’s laugh was low and warm, like his useless Father’s whiskey, like the wax. “Why, your face.”

“Oh.”

Somehow, he supposed it made sense. Hux watched them turn away, pick up the bucket, and fill it again. Beyond, looking up, he could see the pink glow in the sky, through the smog blackened row of tiny windows by the roof. Casting his eyes down, he saw the paraffin candle, still burning hot. Its flame matched the burnt blind spot in his vision. Must’ve been staring at it before he passed out, lulled by the warm wax. 

They returned, heralded by the sound of the heavy bucket. Hux caught the tail end of a bicep flex. “You won’t… leave me like this, right? You’ll get me out?”

He must have looked particularly pathetic, because the smile on those wide, plush lips was a soft one. “I wouldn’t be able to do it again if I didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t be able to tell you my name,” Hux answered, the words out before he could think. He closed his eyes then, hoping that if maybe he did, and he really was abandoned after his face was covered, that he’d at last remember something soft.

The wax was hot, but not intolerable. It was smoothed, carefully, over his eyebrows and eyelids, across his cheeks, and over his lips. Hux felt it sink into the seam, and begin to cool over the form. He didn’t dare move as more cascaded from his temples, got into his hair, his ears. He felt the Wax Taxidermist shape it into the intricate crevices, and continue working until it covered his hair and made it feel heavy.

Eventually, he felt himself tip back, moving in the dark that washed over him. His eyelids and lashes were trapped shut in the wax, and the red sort of biological darkness around him swirled and stretched into some meaningless notion of time. And then it got very dark. The sounds around him were muffled, but he could feel, at a distance, the hand on his shoulder that kept him steady. He huffed a breath through his nose, sound in his throat dead. Like the Wax Taxidermist’s roadkill.

Hux was being moved, he could feel it, but he hadn’t been aware of how much time the man had spent on his face. The smell changed from wax-dust, sweat, oil and rust to… machine oil, a stained and dirty outside air. He could smell it. Nothing pure, but he was outside, and it was light again, not as bright as the circle of light from the lamp, nor was it warm. Through some odd jump, he could tell that the outside of the wax was colder. What was near his skin was a comfortable warm hold, but the outermost layer was cold in the air. 

The not-shiver slipped down his spine, the minute movement enough to send the early morning light, crisp and clear, into a billion fractures through the amber-clear wax. It picked up the light like a sponge, and lit him up, a cold, bright glow that kissed his freckles and encased flesh.

He was aware of the Wax Taxidermist moving around him, a fuzzy, dim shadow that crossed over the red-dark. Watching him. Looking at him. Appraising his work. Hux would have groaned. The sound died in his throat.

Hands and fingers, he could feel them, swimming into his awareness, bringing him to the surface of the deep pond again and again, though he could hardly tell how long between each touch. His leg, sides, then his arms. Most time was spent with his hands, and the reverence was telegraphed through the long, slow, dragging caresses.

And then there would be nothing for what seemed like an age. His solitude and receding warmth would be interrupted then, by another touch, like a word of prayer. This one was over his cheek, cupping his face, brushing his lips. A third noise was killed in his throat. When he was left alone this time, it left him reeling and unmoored. Hux choked, throat seizing into a cough that he couldn’t expel through his closed mouth. The fit passed eventually, left him burning and shaking, and all of a sudden the wax was not warm.

It was cold and hard, digging into him, holding him down, trapping him. Smothering. He could breathe, but he couldn’t get the air. It just kept bleeding out, bleeding out. Tense, like shards, tense like loneliness, like being abandoned again. Hux choked, and the wax cracked and he wanted to cry. It wasn’t safe if it wasn’t keeping him warm, it couldn’t keep him sound and sane. 

The crack splintered up along his chest, and it felt like his very flesh was tearing apart.

Touch.

Warm.

A point of it, soothing his cheek. It patted him, reminiscent of one reassuring an upset dog. It was patronizing, but slowed his erratic heart. The Wax Taxidermist was bringing him back, he just had to wait a little longer. 

More warmth seeped into the wax, and he could feel it, the embrace becoming soft and soothing and welcome once more. Must be inside again. The worst part was that he wasn’t even impatient. Whatever it was that had upset him was far away from the security of the red bio-light on his eyelids, diffused through wax, and then again through flesh. It was only red, he supposed, because of his own blood, and that meant he was still alive. Probably. If he wasn’t, he was being born again.

His lips were freed first, crumbling wax, partially melted again, was rubbed away by a rough, thorough thumb. The transcendental torture-comfort had to end, but Hux was momentarily terrified that the melting wax would spill into his throat and coat his lungs. It didn’t.

 

\---

 

Kylo was even more meticulous in removing the wax from his precious sculpture than he had been applying it to shape. The shell was slowly and carefully heated with the knife, then pried away with gentle fingers. He had to stop to trace the pink, trembling lips, so enamored by them coming back to life, or seeming to in their newfound animation.

So close was he that his breath warmed the thinner wax on the fine bridge of his nose, warmed the wax on his cheeks. It wasn’t enough to truly melt it, but the surface fogged, and Kylo pulled it away. He worked toward the ears, scoring a line to keep the wax over his eyes. With a resounding crash, the wax around his ears and the back of his head fell to the floor. His sculpture did nary as much as twitch.

“Let me take care of you…”

The reborn sculpture’s perfect lips moved, jaw working without sound. Kylo carefully pulled the thicker layer of wax from his throat, cradling his head as the support fell away from his neck. “Hux,” he muttered, near soundless, near breathless, and still galaxies away. 

“You’ve done so, so well, Hux, you were perfect. Still are.” Kylo was whispering these things against a smooth, clean jaw, glowing under the warehouse light. He kept talking as he removed the wax shell from his sculpture. The exposed body shivered, and Kylo knew it was not just his words, but the cooler air.

“Why?”

Kylo stopped, staring at his sculpture- at Hux’s fingers twitch, then flex once they were free. Hux asked him again, this time, with a steadier voice: “Why are you being nice?”

“I treat all my works nicely.”

That seemed to puzzle him. “But I…”

“I drew you a warm bath. You’ll be cold.”

The laugh out of the perfect ginger statue - Hux - was weak, still trying to remember how to breathe with his diaphragm. “Do you always… with the bath?”

“Usually I wash them first. But they’re also usually dead, and much, much smaller. Remember?” Kylo chipped more wax from his legs, and eventually deigned to just remove the shoes, as designer as they looked, they were probably ruined. “You understand now, right? Maybe not until I show you the drawings… or the photos, but you felt it, didn’t you?”

Hux’s mouth and throat worked silently again. He had, he had, in a way, felt it. Safesecurewarm. Delicate, fragile, but safe. He was still being treated as if he were delicate and fragile, but he wasn’t about to complain. Honestly, he doubted he could really move at all. Both bone and muscle felt like nothing more than liquid wax, barely more viscous than the paraffin that still burned on the floor in its little pot - Hux could smell it, even if Kylo kept the wax over his eyes.

“I’ll remove it, but not here. Too bright. I don’t want to blind you. I’m going to bring you to the bath. There’s still wax in your hair… and in places I don’t think you want waxed.” He’d been able to cut Hux’s jeans off, as well as his shirt, but wax had crawled into his armpits, and had oozed into his briefs, and he wasn’t sure quite how much was stuck to whatever remained of that peachy-cinnamon happy trail underneath. His legs and arms weren’t hairless, but he had been able to use gentle heat to loosen the wax enough to remove it without pain. He wasn’t very keen on putting the paraffin flame that close to a man’s dick yet.

Kylo picked Hux up, and brought him to the warm bath he had promised. He wouldn’t bring up how the man had curled into him, gripped his shirt and shoulders, and tucked against him like a child, but he would remember it. Remember that he had made him feel small and safe and warm, despite not knowing him. A warm cloth was used to soften the wax over his eyes so it could be liberated from his brows and lashes, and another carefully coaxed most of the wax from his hair.

Hux blinked his vision back under control, at first, seeing nothing but blurs and steam. It took a few squeezing blinks to focus on the candles lit around the tub, soft orange motes of light, dancing doubles slowly becoming single as his eyes remembered how to work. The low light was a blessing, and the little flames were beautiful, soothing things.

He relaxed into the comb pulling through his hair, teasing out more wax. 

“That’s lovely, Hux,” Kylo murmured with a press of hot lips to his temple.

He was lovely. Something divine and safe, and it was terrifying, but he could just be in love with the Wax Taxidermist.


End file.
